


Your Brother's Keeper

by combeferric



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 14:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1107806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combeferric/pseuds/combeferric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Combeferre share a few words on the subject of fraternity—five years apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1827: In the Café Musain

_“Do you have any siblings?”_

The words came as a bit of a jolt. Combeferre had momentarily left his medical texts in order to busy himself with a stubborn window-latch when, upon hearing this sudden inquiry, the swiftness of his movements came to an abrupt halt. It was an unusually warm day for spring; the sultry air, seemingly undisturbed, continued in its torpid inactivity, and the specks of dust, earthly particles framed in heavenly glory, suspended almost motionlessly and radiant as they caught the gold-colored rays of the afternoon sun, swirled lazily by the window where the young man stood. Combeferre, himself bathed in sunlight and his brow dampened with sweat, turned a bit, interrupting their languid dance a little.

The back room of the Café Musain was deserted that afternoon. Madame Hucheloup was preoccupied with scrubbing the floor of the lounge in the front, where a particularly unruly quarrel the night before had resulted in the shedding of blood and the violent upheaval of cheap wine. The two girls, likewise, minded their business elsewhere, preparing for another night of business, surely, but with little hurry. It had only been a few hours since the Society of the Friends of the ABC had concluded one of their periodic gatherings, this time on the subject of the recruitment of the construction-workers in the northern parts of the city (and the merits and ramifications thereof) as well as the management of their liaisons with the local artisans. All, however, had exited to tend to their own affairs long ago but two: one in meditation and the other in study.

Enjolras waited with some expectancy for a response, leaning in slightly with arms crossed and resting on a table, though his expression betrayed no particular sense of urgency. A strong cup of tea lay to his left, its contents untouched throughout his prolonged state of silent contemplation, which was broken at last only by his unexpected talk of siblings. Enjolras tapped his fingers a little on the table, slowly, rhythmically, producing slight tremors that effected tiny ripples on the surface of the lukewarm tea. Otherwise, total calm.

Combeferre chewed over a bit this curious question. In all the several years he had known his passionate young friend, in all his blaze and glory and profound loneliness—for he had achieved a kind of sublimation that obliged one to be lonely, separated from and elevated above the lives of common men by right of some divine purpose and _bound_ , singularly, by a solemn contract with duty—Enjolras had never, to Combeferre’s knowledge, asked _any_ of his companions about such a thing as _family_ before. The distant heart of the fiery Enjolras, not uncaring but certainly not outwardly warm, had seemed not to hold a place for the words _mother, father, sister,_ and _brother._

He had, however, noticed a particular remoteness in Enjolras’ behavior today—even earlier, as Enjolras was talking of recruitment and the other pressing issues at hand, Combeferre had furrowed his brow upon perceiving an absent dullness which clouded his old friend’s vision like frost on a windowpane, as well as a dreamy quality which muffled his speech, as though he were speaking through the thick haze of a summer night’s reverie. Perhaps, Combeferre had thought, he was simply in a sullen mood due to some little event the night before—a quarrel with the landlady or a run-in in the streets—though he knew his friend too well to actually believe so. More likely, he deduced, he had something decidedly uncharacteristic on his mind.

“Why do you ask?” Combeferre asked finally.

“Simple curiosity.” Enjolras’ expression remained unchanged. “Well? Do you?” he urged, careful not to arouse suspicion but already failing in this respect.

Combeferre allowed himself a minute to complete his task before resuming his place on the table across from Enjolras. When he managed to unclasp the latch at last, he budged open the window, a chipped and grimy thing which, judging from its reluctance to move, appeared to have been closed for quite some time. Fresh air rushed instantly into the room, and with it, the distant sounds of the children: the sing-song of schoolchildren released from their studies and the clamor and whistling of barefoot _gamins_ alike—echoes from the narrow streets of the city, the veins which carry the life of Civilization itself. Children of the schoolyard and children of the streets. Children with bright eyes and rosy cheeks and laughter that bubbled from their mouths; little bits of change in their pockets, maybe—or holes.

“Yes,” he answered, his eyebrows raised a bit, involuntarily. “In fact, I do. Two little ones—sisters. Ten and fifteen years old.”

“What are they like?” asked Enjolras. His manner was persistently nonchalant, though Combeferre held a slight suspicion that his air was that of feigned indifference. Enjolras, wary of Combeferre’s perceptiveness, was prepared to defend himself by pleading etiquette; it is a simple formality, after all, in getting to better know a comrade—asking about family, that is—and part of the proper and expected protocol for friendship, is it not? Never mind the several years’ delay, it was only appropriate for him to ask.

Combeferre, however, elected not to ask any such question. “Well,” he began instead, removing his spectacles and closing his book-strained eyes as if in preparation to remember, “the younger of the two is a bit rowdy—always pilfering sweets from the pantry and getting her petticoats messy and dragging her boots through rain puddles. All just to get a stir out of her poor mother!” He could not stop the smile gathering at the corners of his mouth. He chuckled fondly at the memories. “She has the sweetest little face! Dark hair, like her father’s, wild and untamed curls like a storm; wide-set eyes and cheeks dipped in scarlet, even when not in the midst of one of her temper-fits, which is often; curious eyes that wander; a tiny, pouting little mouth that laughs uproariously and knows no timidness nor reservation—“

“Nothing like you,” Enjolras interjected, almost in a tone of jest.

“No,” Combeferre said, looking toward Enjolras and still smiling his honest, good-natured smile. “Rather not like me at all.”

“And the elder?”

“More solemn, I suppose,” he mused. “A reader. Studious. Prudent. Reserved, with a gentle smile and delicate little hands that she waves about when speaking as though in punctuation, forming themselves into shapes, grasping at truths…”

Combeferre gestured earnestly with his hands in imitation. Enjolras looked to him with a slight wrinkle of the brows and a curious parting of the lips.

“Well,” Combeferre continued, perching his chin pensively upon his thumb, “you wouldn’t believe it if you had seen her, but she used to be quite an ornery and fiery little thing, too. I suppose children do tend to find peace or tiredness with the years—one of the two. Though it is my personal belief that all children by heart are wild, and all adults—or so I _think_ —used to be children.”

“Even you?” said Enjolras in a tone that was now most certainly teasing.

“Perhaps,” admitted Combeferre, running his thumb across his chin absently. His transparent face couldn’t hide the large grin that revealed his benevolent dimples and softened his serious yet peaceful countenance.

“You speak of them fondly—your sisters, I mean.”

“Yes. They are dear to me.” Combeferre sighed contentedly. “I visit them often. Whenever I can. I read them stories and take them to the pond and teach them lessons, sometimes.” He procured a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his glasses thoroughly before replacing them with care on the bridge of his nose. “At night we like to look to the skies. It’s so easy to feel small when you’re under the cold light and watchful eyes of five hundred million little stars—and very big, too. I’ve taught them the names of the constellations. They’re very bright girls. Fast learners.”

Enjolras seemed vaguely impressed. “But enough of my rhapsodizing—what about you?” Combeferre asked. “Have you any brothers or sisters?”

Enjolras cast Combeferre a look that suggested a certain kind of distance before looking away, into the window. It had been said that Enjolras’ penetrating gaze had, from time to time, been known not only to stray, but to transcend—and in certain moments of preoccupation his eyes wandered in a way such that it was impossible to tell whether they were seeing across twenty leagues or twenty years.

Outside, a slight wind caught in its breeze a branch of ivy that had been thrown over the window, swinging it slowly back and forth, giving it a generous lift and then carelessly letting it fall once more. Enjolras watched it, though rather not intently.

“No,” he answered. “No, I don’t.”

“Only child, then.”

“Yes,” he said with a slight frown and cock of the head. “I guess you could say that.” His lower lip pouted a little farther than usual. Was it jealousy that rang in his solemn, prophetic voice? Or simply an inability to relate that had its roots in a want of fraternity?

Combeferre nodded in understanding.

“I’ve always wondered, though, Enjolras went on. “What it means to have a sibling—what it’s _like_ , that is.” His voice, though it managed to come out hardly less clear and smooth and confident and placid than usual, sounded as if they had been weighed out with some deliberation, and as if some effort required his getting them out. “In particular,” he said, “I’ve always wanted a brother. I’ve always felt—”

In that moment, he reached clumsily for his cup of tea, surely no longer even palatable, with hands shuddering. In his flair of drama, however, he had forgotten to look, and with a dull clink the cup came down tumbling onto its side.

“Lonely?” suggested Combeferre after waiting a moment for a reaction that never came.

“As though I am somehow not my full self,” Enjolras concluded, carefully, as though he were testing the words out for the first time. “As if I’m missing something.”

He paused. The tea-cup, happily unbroken, rolled slowly until its delicate handle acted as a kind of stopper, securing it into place. Its contents had spilled, but the tilt of the table had caused the tea to leak out horizontally, away from the two students. The brownish liquid found itself caught on a groove in the wooden table, formed a slow, downward stream, and, when it reached the edge of the table, dripped steadily onto the floor, gathering in a murky puddle on the stained, creaking planks. Enjolras had already forgotten it.

“That is to say, terribly lonely,” he clarified.

He refused to offer any further explanation, though Combeferre didn’t expect one of him. Silence fell, and for a moment, a lazily-moving cloud in the sky shrouded the sun, casting a shadow over Enjolras’ dignified face. The cloud passed in time, allowing sunlight to again flood the room with, it seemed, an even greater intensity than before. Enjolras’ golden locks, highlighted in a brilliant white halo, seemed ready to catch on fire, and yet his composure had the depth and coolness of an ocean. Sorrow swam somewhere below the surface of his eyes. He breathed slowly and deeply, letting the thin, pale skin of his eyelids, glowing warmly and faintly lined with tiny blood vessels (the one physical testament, perhaps, to his humanity), to both give rest to his tired eyes and shield the world from his icy, timeless stare.

Combeferre seized the opportunity to clean the mess as much as he could with his handkerchief, reaching down to mop up the pool on the floor. He remembered, then, that this particular handkerchief was incidentally the work of both his two sisters—a hand-embroidered birthday gift. (It was apparent from the endearingly sloppy stitches where the younger had done her share.) He returned to his seat, resolving to wash out the tea stains vigorously later on, as to avoid making a sacrifice of their handiwork. He closed his textbooks, bent down a bit to meet Enjolras at eye-level. Enjolras said still not a word, though sternness had given way to sadness: a softer beast, but deadlier. Combeferre laid a hand on his arm.

“You have brothers in _us_ ,” he assured with a smile.


	2. 1832: On the Barricade

The frantic yelling below came to a fever pitch. Corpses began to litter the crowded streets. The quiet venue where the young students assembled for occasional drink and discourse had turned to bedlam. Men, young and old, scrambled for shelter, loaded their guns, fired, were fired at, screamed, bled, expired.

“What a pity it is,” remarked Combeferre, surveying the warzone beneath him. “What a most hideous pity! War, slaughter, butchery, bloodbath—it is son against father, neighbor against neighbor. Friend turned enemy and enemy turned executioner.” A wry, observant smile gathered on his lips. Wet, salty trails formed along his cheeks as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. In the midst of all this chaos and carnage, Combeferre wept for humanity.

“There are citizens,” retorted Enjolras, “and there are treasoners. That is all. He who, on this wretched field of battle, abandons his fellow men, who shoots in the name of despotism and tyranny…He is no friend of mine.” He let this condemnation fall from his lips like a death sentence as he raised his gun, taking aim.

Combeferre followed the barrel of Enjolras' rifle. At the end of its path was a young man, in his mid-twenties, clad in a national guard’s uniform, but particularly distinguished. This victim seemed somehow a more worthy target than the others. A sergeant? He must be so; a commander of some kind, whose death would surely give the insurgents the upper hand for some time. The angle of Enjolras’ aim—he was an excellent shot, with that eagle’s vision of his—and the trajectory of the bullet! Combeferre knew at a glance that certain death would follow. How fortuitous! Their ranks were failing; it was one sorely-needed step closer to victory. And yet, curiously, for some vague reason which escaped him—the young man’s innocent voice, perhaps, the fright that hid behind his wooden expression, or the rosy, honest blush of his cheeks—Combeferre could not bring himself to hate him.

“Enjolras, wait,” Combeferre advised. Enjolras, lost in concentration, seemed not to hear—or else he was pretending with some degree of success.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre pleaded, louder, in a hissed whisper. “Look at him.” Still, not a response.

_“In God’s name, lower your gun a moment and look at him!”_

Enjolras lost his aim, flinching in annoyance at having been interrupted.

Combeferre went on, apologetically but resolutely. “You see the face of an enemy,” he said. “Do you not? Very well; perhaps you should. But let me report to you what I see: He is charming, this young man; do you not see the smile of Courfeyrac like a shadow lurking behind those lips? He is intrepid; look no further than Bahorel for your comparison. He is thoughtful; see the light of Joly’s wit in his troubled eyes, and the dark of Marius’ pensive gaze. He is highly educated—all these artillery-men are—see how Feuilly’s proud, cosmopolitan wisdom comes across in his voice. Just think, he has a father, a mother, a family, and friends! Do remember Bossuet, friend to us all. He must be in _love_ , the poor fellow, the way we see our poor friend Prouvaire’s melancholy in his expression..!”

Enjolras was unmoved yet. He readjusted his aim and prepared to situate himself once more at the window-ledge at which he had been strategically positioned.

“He is not more than five and twenty at the most. Enjolras, _please_ ,” Combeferre urged.

Enjolras tightened his lip in irritation. Combeferre grabbed at his arm, raising his voice in desperation. “Imagine,” he said, “he _believed_ in something.”

Enjolras stopped. He felt, for a fraction of a second, his stony heart freeze. At those critical words, he shook as though afflicted with a sudden chill.

“He… _What?”_

Combeferre continued, tentatively. “You said once—”

“Combeferre,” Enjolras warned, with the coarseness of a voice phased through a lumpy throat. He shot a furtive gaze at the artillery-man, then back at Combeferre, who had gripped his shooting arm a bit tighter than intended. Though softened a bit by fondness, the warning-voice of Enjolras was murderously formidable.

“You said once,” Combeferre reminded, raising his voice, “that you’ve always wanted a brother.”

Enjolras lowered his rifle. He had turned his face the other way.

“Remember?”

Enjolras trembled mildly, as if with fury or desperation. Combeferre started forward to match Enjolras’ gaze, but he pushed him away.

“Look at me, Enjolras,” begged Combeferre. _“Look at me.”_

Combeferre proceeded with caution, his words calculated but passionate. “Could you, with all honesty—you, having seen the face of this youth, in whose visage you see reflected all of ours, and yours, too; you, who, by some unfortunate circumstance of fate lie on one side of this barricade as he lies on the other, when it could just as well have happened the opposite way—lock your eyes with mine and tell me that this boy could not be your brother?”

Enjolras looked at last at the face of his earnest, eloquent friend. A watery film clouded his cold, preying eyes. His aquiline gaze lowered, he seemed nothing like the steely, unyielding commander he was a moment ago, shooting enemy soldiers in cold blood and yelling down orders at the front line. He pursed his lips, thought for a moment, and swallowed.

“Well,” Combeferre demanded, “could you?”

“He is,” Enjolras admitted weakly. “I mean—he _is_ my brother.”

Combeferre smiled genially. “Yes,” he agreed, laying a gentle hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “He is mine, too.”

With his other hand he gingerly lowered the rifle in Enjolras’ grip. “Let us spare him,” he asked in almost a whisper.

Enjolras stiffened. _“Do you remember,”_ Enjolras demanded solemnly, each word dripping with the heavy weight of melancholy, the burden of necessity, “why you’re here, Combeferre?”

“Yes, but I am petitioning f—“

“We are here as agents of the people’s will,” Enjolras snapped coldly. “Martyrs of justice. Guardians of the future—”

“The future!” Combeferre gasped incredulously. “The future! Bought, here, now, with the life of your brother!”

Enjolras looked away uneasily, at a loss for words.

Combeferre softened suddenly. “We don’t need to do this. Please, for the love of mercy, for the love of _fraternity,_ let us not kill him.” He inclined his head slightly in the direction of the artillery-man.

Enjolras turned his head reluctantly. He surveyed the face of the artillery-man: so young, so unknowing, so vulnerable—so much like his own.

A little-known fact, though neither of the young men knew this, was that the name of the young sergeant was Julien—Julien, like the name of the immense monarchy whose might they faced; Julien, like the radiant month which warms up our hearts; Julien, whose tombstone might, in a great irony, be dated prematurely, in June.

“Why,” asked Enjolras, “do you wish to save this man?” Despondency colored the voice of the august youth. “He is putting in danger the lives of the good citizens for which we fight. If we don’t kill him, he’ll kill us first!”

Combeferre bowed his head pensively. “When I was young,” he reflected, “I had thought that the greatest of man’s problems were borne from an inability to think and to know.” He loosened his grip on Enjolras’ arm, running one hand across his blood-spotted, filth-covered forehead; even in war, the philosopher found time for talks of peace. “I now know that these same problems arise from an inability to feel and to understand.”

He paused to allow the thought to sink in. Enjolras listened intently, his expression grave and troubled as if in a great effort to resolve some inner conflict.

“Let us, then, feel,” Combeferre went on. “Endeavor to forgive, to _love_ your fellow brother. After all, don’t you? Love? Enjolras—”

“No!” Enjolras shouted decisively, his voice ringing with the clarity of a judge’s. Combeferre jumped, startled at Enjolras’ sudden outburst—and a bit hurt, even.

“Stop it,” Enjolras said in a seething, whispered growl which scorched like a brand. “ _Now._ ” Then, in a tremor: “Leave me alone.”

“Enjolras—“

Combeferre squeezed his arm. Then, suddenly, with a new and ferocious determination, Enjolras shook off Combeferre’s guiding hand, a wild and furious look in his eyes as he raised his gun once more and wrapped his finger around the trigger. _“No_ — _it must be done!”_

The last word was lost on Combeferre. A deadly sound rang out. A flash illuminated Enjolras’ noble face, and for the briefest instant, the sublime glow produced by the rifle-shot revealed what, to Combeferre, seemed a single tear, a salty bead of liquid corroding the marble and revealing the humanity beneath.

It appeared that even earthbound angels, the mightiest soldiers of heaven, were capable of weeping.

Smoke followed, and shadows fell again. The stench of execution poisoned the air. That young, handsome, virile soldier, with his boy’s face and tousled hair and slender, uniform-clad figure, shining brass buttons and all, collapsed, doubled-in, like a marionette with its strings cut. His spirit, just seconds ago in its prime, shattered like glass, withered away like a leaf in November. His expression froze in fear and panic while his eyes sought wildly the one responsible for the shot, and when he perceived the statuesque figure of Enjolras and found his gaze returned, he knew. A look—was it one of betrayal?—came over his innocent face momentarily as he studied the young chief; a second later, he was gone.

Combeferre suppressed a gasp, dismayed. How fragile life is, he thought as he watched the young sergeant fall, his hand having reached Enjolras’ a moment too late. How temporal the human form so that even a bit of metal ore shaped into a rough sphere no bigger than a thumbnail could take from it its essence as easily as a careless child plucks a flower; and how hideous a thing untimely death is, making martyrs and then tombstones of the young and hopeful!

Cannonfire continued to strain the ears as the smoke cleared away. The screams of soldiers and insurgents alike rang out periodically in the massacre on the streets. Crimson rain bled into the gutters and seeped down into the dirt and cobble below. Combeferre wondered with some bitterness what kinds of monstrous growths would spawn in this soil so richly fertilized with the blood of innocents.

He turned back to Enjolras, frowning slightly at what he found. Was it the light playing upon the ghostly, smoke-filled dimness of the battlefield, or was it simply in his imagination? For a moment, Enjolras, who stood by him, the upright soldier of democracy, the angelic symbol of divine right, that unwavering pillar of justice, had seemed—for perhaps the first time since the bloodshed started— _hurt._ But the moment passed as quickly as it had come, and Combeferre again found himself staring into the stern, sober face of the boy he always knew.

“His life has bought us fifteen minutes,” Enjolras observed coolly, as if trying to forget what had just taken place.

“Yes,” Combeferre replied somewhat blankly, solemn, unsurprised, but unable to keep his disappointment from affecting his tone of voice.

Enjolras seemed not proud. He almost seemed downright regretful, in fact, though he tried his best not to sound like it. “He was a valuable one,” he said, as if adding justification, briskly reloading his rifle and avoiding Combeferre’s searching eyes.

Combeferre nodded, too tired to react. He sucked in a breath, and the air tasted like smoke, acrid and dry. He sighed, regained his composure, dressed the wounds of his soul with stoicism and calm acceptance.

“Let us not waste our efforts, then," he replied as placidly as he could manage, "we who are bartering for lives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired in part by the Miserable Holidays gift I received from the lovely and talented sweetestremedy (Tumblr user grumpyfaceurn). The headcanon for the artillery sergeant's name is borrowed from Tumblr user apfelhalm.


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